Dirty Work
by Roxi2Star
Summary: Sally once said that they would all be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes would be the one that put it there. But she was wrong. Sherlock would just decide where it would go. WARNING: Dark themes and character death


_Sally Donovan once said that one day they would all be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes would be the one to put it there. _

"Shot right in the middle of the forehead. Execution style. The bullet entered through the front of the head. " Anderson told Lestrade, taking off his rubber working gloves. "Fourth one this month. Just the same."

"Is there a note?" Lestrade asked.

"Yup. Just like all the others. A small meaningless poem, this one goes back to being about the heart. Folded and placed in the front of the mouth."

A young man lay on the ground, his legs straight, and his arms at his side. He almost seemed to be sleeping. Aside from the faded look of terror on his face, and the echo of fear in his eyes. A slip of paper, folded sticking out of his mouth, which had been removed. It was always the same. Someone was taken off the streets, then the next day they would be found in the position in a random place with a typed poetry sticking out of their mouth. The blood and wound was always cleaned. Someone went to a lot of trouble to clean their victim and make it look pretty. The poems were all similar and about the mind or the heart. The font varied. Those with the heart was different to those about the mind, and they switched off. This one was about the heart.

"I hate to say it..." Sally said coming up to the other too. "But I think it may be time to call in the freak."

"No. We're not calling him. He'll just come in and take over, and it'll be a headache for the rest of us." Anderson said. "Besides he's been weirder than normal lately."

"What do you mean?" Lestrade asked.

"Like he's been freakier than normal. He gets this weird look in his eyes, and he just rubs me the wrong way. And his little pet's been the same way. They also seem... Like more connected. Like they have their own freaky language. Dunno it's just... Weird." Anderson said crossing his arms. "No freak this time. We do this on our own."

_But she was wrong_

Anderson leaned down over the old woman. She was number 6 of the Poem Killer, as the papers dubbed him. The bullet wound in the middle of her dark forehead was the same as all the others. Right in the middle. She was sprawled out, her arms and legs straight, her floral dress clean, her grey hair perfectly arranged. The small piece of paper sticking out of her mouth. He slowly pulled it out and read it.

_Be still my beating heart. _

_Or burst in my chest_

_I hold my hand to my breast_

_And I know this is just the start_

He compared it to the last one

**Thoughts whizzing by at the speed of light**

**Your mind is on and roaming**

**Through all your thoughts are you combing**

**I resist the urge to kiss you with all my might. **

Anderson frowned. They were becoming love poems. They hadn't started out that way, but they were certainly heading that way. It must be two people, lovers. Sick twisted lovers. And they must have something to do with the heart and the mind.

It wouldn't be until later, as he lay in his bed when Anderson would put all the pieces together.

_Sherlock only decided where they would go. _

Anderson came rushing into Lestrade's office, a triumphant grin on his face.

"It's the freak and his pet." He said quickly before Lestrade could say anything first. "I know that it's them. They killed those people and they write love letters to each other. It's so... Freaky. Just the type of thing freak would do."

"You're out of your mind." Lestrade said slowly. "Sherlock Holmes, kill people? John Watson murder innocent men and women. And just to write each other love letters? You do know that, despite all the rumors they aren't really dating."

"Yes I know how it sounds, but I'm sure he's the-"

"Anderson. I think you need to take a few days off. Why don't we go out for a pint tonight, and you can unwind for a bit. Ok?" Lestrade said leading him out of his office. "In the meantime go home. Watch some telly. Something to distract you from the case, and these theories about Sherlock. But I will look into the lovers thing." Anderson nodded slowly, but still not sure if he was buying it.

But he went home and he thought about it some more. And the more he thought about it the more sure he was that Sherlock and John were committing murders.

_Sherlock doesn't like to get his hands dirty_

Lestrade came to pick him up later that night. They went to a small pub, and had a few drinks. Anderson tried to convince him that

Sherlock was the killer, but Lestrade just wasn't buying it. Lestrade then drove him home. Or Anderson thought he was being driven home at first. But when they got into the car, Lestrade turned to him and said;

"I think you may be right. And I know where the next spot is. If we hurry we can catch them in the act, and get them behind bars. Maybe even save a life." Lestrade said. Anderson grinned.

"Let's go."

Lestrade drove him to an empty office building that was up for sale. Anderson got out of the car quickly and headed inside, and didn't notice when Lestrade pulled out black leather gloves and another gun, and followed him inside. Anderson practically ran up the steps to the top floor. The entire space was open and empty, aside from two men standing in the middle. Sherlock and John.

Sherlock looked normal, his long coat on, his scarf tied, and his hands in his pockets. John stood next to him, his face weary, and his arms relaxed. Anderson grinned as he walked up to him.

"Caught you red handed." He said in a small sing song voice. "You'll be arrested for all those murders and you'll go to prison where your brain will rot!"

"Caught me? I haven't done anything." Sherlock said with a smirk.

"No. You've been having your pet do it." Anderson snarled.

"No. I mean I haven't done anything tonight. You said you caught me red handed. And no one's dead or being killed. Yet."

"And no one will. Because I'm here to stop you!" He said.

"I don't believe so. In fact I think you're hear to be, what is it John, number 7?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah. He'll be 7." John said

"So that's a confession! Lestrade I believe we can arrest them now?" Anderson said turning to face Lestrade, but was only met with a gun pointed at him.

"'fraid not." Lestrade said. "How am I doing?" He asked the other two.

"Very good. Would you like to be the one to finish him off? He'll be the first you've actually killed." Lestrade nodded. "But lets tell him what's been happening. You mentioned that he thought John and I were writing poems to each other?" Another nod. Sherlock laughed. "Oh Anderson you dull idiot."

"So what is this then?" He asked slowly.

"I got bored. John and Lestrade were willing to help." Sherlock said simply. "I thought a poem would be fun and make the police think that they had some kind of meaning. I like to watch them run around in circles, scrambling to find the truth, which even if they find, they will never understand. It's funny. Like a chicken whose head has been cut off."

"You're mad!" Anderson yelled.

"I'm brilliant." Sherlock said. "Finish him." And Lestrade did. He pushed Anderson on his knees, and pressed the gun to his forehead. Anderson's face lit up with fear as the trigger was pulled.

_Sherlock always has someone else there to do his dirty work. _

**Haha. I got bored myself. So yeah... My first Sherlock fanfiction is a dark fic... Yay? I dunno. I always liked killer Sherlock. And John's just as mad as Sherlock. He's got no issue in killing people. Almost none at all. I mean he killed for Sherlock when he only knew him for a day. I doubt he'd have any trouble killing people for him after knowing him for a while. As for Lestrade... I just thought it would be fun. SO yeah... **


End file.
